Don't Worry, I'll be Fine
by Underwater Dreaming
Summary: Marco is stressed out and Ace can't stop scratching at bug bites. This won't end well.
1. Ace

**A/N:** Warning for self-harm, depression and suicidal thoughts.

* * *

It itches. Unbearably so. And so he scratches.

He scratches and scratches and scratches his wrists. The skin gets sore and red and inflamed but he doesn't really notice it or even care. The only thing he can feel is this goddamned itch. He taps his feet on the ground, boots thudding to the rhythm of some half-forgotten song, in an attempt to distract himself.

Anything. Anything to disrupt this ITCHING. For a few minutes, the combination seems to work, the scratching fading to the back of his mind as his focus shifts.

Until from across the room, he hears an aggravated sigh. His foot freezes, and with a wince, he turns his head to meet the source.

He probably shouldn't have, because Marco has pinned him with a peeved stare.

"Quit it, yoi."

With deliberate actions, he pulls his hands away from each other- the blonds eyes not leaving him for a second- and sets them down on the table firmly. He gives Marco a questioning look, as if to say, well, is that enough?

It is apparently enough, as the irritable man turns back to his work, to the papers cluttered all over the desk. Quietly muttering about physics and other stuff that tended to go right over Aces head.

It's not to say that he's stupid, but if you ask him what the coefficient of whatever is, he'll probably give you a blank look. Science is just not his thing, alright?!

Still. It makes him feel horrible. He's here, at his boyfriends apartment - that word still makes him so happy to say- and he can't even keep quiet so that said boyfriend can concentrate. It's his final thesis, an important work that will ultimately determine his final grade.

In short, he can't afford to have Ace distracting him with this crap. If Marco got a bad comment or even failed because of Ace, he'd never forgive himself.

Ace was so absorbed in these thoughts, that he didn't even realize he was scratching his wrists again. It wasn't until he felt a sharp stab of pain that he noticed the blood.

His fingers were caked in it. Blood was everywhere. His wrists, under his nails. Some had dripped and smeared on the table and probably on his clothes as well, though his pants today were black and he couldn't tell for sure.

Letting out a low sound of pain, he quietly set his hands down on the kitchen table. Marco was going to flip out when he saw this. This was the last thing the blond needed right now, as the stress caught up and the pressure was on near the end of the year. An idiot hurting himself.

It wouldn't be hard, Ace figured, to just wrap it up with some bandages. God knows he's gotten into enough fights over the years to know some basic first aid. The only challenge was getting over to the cabinet in the kitchenette without the other noticing.

Seriously. The last thing Marco needs is to have to worry about his stupid airhead boyfriend, Ace, hurting himself. Even if it wasn't entirely conscious on his part. There's enough of a history -and Aces eyes flicker darkly for the briefest of moments- that it'd quickly turn into an interrogation and inevitably an argument.

He hates those fights. Absolutely can't stand it when he and Marco end up shouting at each other. Something in his chest clenches at even the idea, and he shakes his head to clear the thoughts out.

No. It's time to get up. No more delays. He quietly stands up, the chair scraping obnoxiously loud in the silence which is otherwise interrupted only by the occasional mutter or the scratch of a pencil.

"Water?" He mumbles, trying not to sound suspicious. It probably comes out a bit stiff, but Marco doesn't even look up from his desk, full attention on his work.

Really, he thinks to himself? Is that the best you could come up with to ask? Dumbass...

It's a few minutes of quiet, in which he awkwardly waits, fingers idly rubbing his wrist. "Ah... No thanks, yoi..." is the eventual half-hearted reply. Thank fuck for small mercies, Ace thinks to himself as he slinks over to the sink.

As he leans down to get the first aid kit from under the sink, Marcos voice sounds from behind him. "Actually..." He pauses for a moment, scribbling something in the carefully organized mess, "Could I get a glass after all?"

Ace freezes, his hand on the handle of the door. "Yeah, sure." His fingers slip off and go up instead. His hands shake, and he grits his teeth. Stupid hands. Stupid arms. Stupid wrists.

Stupid Ace. He pulls the door open, ignoring the way the pressure hurts his wrist. Grabs the first glass- stained some kind of smoky bluegreen - and goes to fill it from the faucet, so he could take it over to Marco, so he could wrap his stupid arms, make an excuse and leave for home.

Sometimes, it was the most simple of things that tired you the most. Pouring a glass of fucking water. It was just too much. Being in a quiet room, the itching, his torn up skin. The final straw.

He wants to curl up in Marcos arms and sleep. The way their bodies fit together is perfect. Marcos fingers running through his hair.

But he refuses to be selfish. To drag people down. So he's going to take this glass over and go.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Or at least his stupid, shuddering hand did.

The sound of the glass shattering in the sink was like a gunshot. Ace swore. Marco let out an undignified sound, somewhere behind him.

The chair scraped on the floor. "What happened? Are you alright, yoi?" His voiced laced with obvious annoyance.

Ace didn't turn to look, instead stepping to the right to get something to put the glass shards in. "It's fine, just a glass, I'll clean it up. Clumsy me, haha." He laughed, and wasn't sure how he kept his voice steady.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine."


	2. Marco

**A/N:** I thought I already posted the second part... oops. **Warnings:** Same as chapter 1

* * *

Marco is stressed. Like, really stressed. About lots of things.

His father, who admittedly is getting older, is also getting much sicker. Thatch, his brother is in a coma after being attacked by someone they'd considered family.

Never mind university. Writing a goddamn thesis that would be the deciding factor as to whether he passed or failed the whole thing.

He'd always had trouble sleeping. Textbook insomniac if ever there was one. But it was driving him to new depths of trouble.

Ace, too. He worried about Ace. With everything that was happening, it put a strain on their relationship. Which had a rocky start to begin with, without adding to it.

Between taking over parts of the family business, studying, and work, the time the two had to spend together had shrunk dramatically.

He felt guilty about it. He blamed himself for what happened to Thatch. Felt useless that he couldn't help his father or anyone else in his family. He couldn't even hardly spend time with his boyfriend.

Part of him was tempted to just throw the whole thing away. Take Ace and just move in together with him and forget the rest. Submerge in his family again and forget all the troubles.

It could never be said that Marco was a coward. Running away just wasn't his thing. And another part of him, a stronger part, would never leave something unfinished.

And so, he was working diligently on his thesis for the final year of his degree, whilst Ace sat in his kitchen slash living room and tried not to make a sound.

He felt bad about it. Ace came here to see him and yet he was just working. But the deadline loomed near and it needed to be finished and after that, they could just spend a whole week alone.

Ace had been good for the first few minutes, tapping away on his phone, the only sound being the occasional subdued laugh, or a disbelieving sound in reaction to something online.

But then his phone battery had died and he'd lost the distraction.

At first, Marco hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Just a quiet, steady tapping he tuned out. But the tapping slowly grew louder, and eventually he couldn't ignore it any more.

He turned to Ace and asked him to stop it. Ace froze mid tap, slowly pulling his nails from his wrists and placing them apart. He recalled something about bug bites, and seeing how red the skin looked, made a note to put something on it later tonight.

Seeing that the noise ended, he turned back to his work.

Time passes in a blur. He isn't sure how long it's been since that last brief interaction, but this time, it's a question that prods at the back of his mind.

He says something back, and silence reigns again. Until the question catches up with his head. Water? A glass of water, he assumes.

"Actually," he pauses, a new idea quickly written down, "Could I get a glass after all?" His throat is suddenly parched and dry, or perhaps he only just noticed it. He glances at the clock huddled in the papers at the corner of his desk. 6pm.

It's been seven hours since he sat down here. Five since Ace came in. It hits him in the gut like a bag of bricks. Where did the day go?

He didn't even notice time passing. With the blinds shut and the desk lamp on time may as well be standing still in here.

His train of thought is abruptly derailed by the sound of something shatter. A surprised sound escapes him, pencil streaking a line across a chart as he hears the only other occupant of the room swear colorfully

Turning, he looks at Ace, who is facing the sink. "What happened? Are you alright, yoi?" He hears a reply, something about a glass, and it sounds off but he isn't paying attention to that.

It's the top kitchen cabinet that has his eye.

Because it's covered in blood.

Something in him sinks. Deep, right down to his gut. Ace steps to the side- presumably to grab a bag- and he spots more blood on the lower cabinet handle.

His eyes flicker to the table - there's more blood there, too- before they return to Ace. He doesn't know how he missed it but-

Ace is shaking. His shoulders are shaking.

He says something. About cleaning up the mess and not to worry, because he's FINE.

Marco is already worried, because it's plenty obvious Ace is not fine by any stretch of the imagination.

He gets to his feet and crosses the room in seconds. Each step feels like hours. Dreading what he might find when he gets to Ace. His mind drifts to darker times, but he snaps out of that before it gets too far.

Reaching out, he places a hand on Aces shoulder. From behind, he can see the mess on his wrists and it hurts, it hurts so bad.

Ace flinches.

And that somehow hurts even more, as he clutched his hands to his chest, as if to hide them, spinning around quickly to face Marco, eyes wide and stuttering out words that didn't have any weight or meaning behind them.

"No, Ace," he interrupts the stream of more and more upset, "you're not fine."

It must've been the last straw, because Ace is sobbing, he's scratching again at his already bloodied wrists, spewing poison and vicious words, backing away like a cornered animal.

"Wouldn't it just be better if I died, so I won't be such a bother to anyone else?!" And that was all Marco could take.

It was all he could handle. His hands shot out and he dragged Ace into his arms, even as the other kicked and bit and flailed, he squeezed and held on so tight he might break him. "No!" He shouted. "If you. If you..." He couldn't even finish it. If you died...

He didn't even want to imagine Ace dying. He let out a choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"Don't you dare. Don't even... Don't even think about that!"

He buried his face in the black, wavy hair, clinging to the body that had now gone still in his grip.

And Ace cried. He cried, and sobbed inconsolably. It seemed every bit of pressure and dark thought that had gathered in his mind was let out. Released from captivity in his head.

Marco never let go the whole time. He didn't speak.

He wasn't even sure he knew where to begin.

Eventually, after a stretch of time he didn't bother counting, the sobs grew less. There was a quiet mumble, so low he almost missed it. Something about a glass.

As if he cared about the stupid glass. He doubted that was all it was about, either. But he reassured Ace on that, his own words having more than one meaning.

"Don't worry, it'll be fine."


End file.
